


Playing a numbers game...

by aljohnson



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Multi, Smut, wandering mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5682562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aljohnson/pseuds/aljohnson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There has been much discussion on tumblr as to the quality of Phryne's lovers. And speculation that some of them were probably terrible. </p>
<p>I'm not a huge fan of Warwick Hamilton, I find him a little 'oily' (?), and hold the suspicion that Phryne slept with him for two reasons: 1) To find out if he had a motive for murder; and 2) As a reaction to her over-hearing Jack saying he had 'no intention of pursuing his greatest passion'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing a numbers game...

Usually, Phryne mused, she made better choices than this. She flexed her toes; well, she attempted to flex her toes, the angle made it difficult. He didn’t even notice. Sometimes she was very grateful that women were supposed to just lie flat on their backs and wait for men to be done. But she much preferred men who realised that it was better if the woman enjoyed herself too. Better for them, as well as the woman. He’d shown promise – flowers were often a good sign of intention, and his smile was lovely. Maybe it was their pre-tumble talk? Maybe she’d reminded him too much of The Front, and his mind had triggered him into ‘thank god I’m alive sex’? Which was rarely of high quality and needed both of you to be on an adrenalin fuelled high to be truly effective.

But it had been so long, and Jack plainly wasn’t going to make a move. She kept on asking him to dinner, and he kept on coming. And staying for a nightcap. But then he kept on going home. It was so frustrating. Maybe it was that honourable sense around his marriage? But that was done now, wasn’t it? ‘My former wife’; he’d tripped over the words, and not even been sure what name to call her. Which was, somewhat awkward. And ‘Rosie’ had plainly heard of ‘Miss Fisher’. That was, potentially interesting. By her reading of the Court Reports in The Argus, she knew when the Decree Nisi had been issued. So by her calculation, Decree Absolute should be finalised any day now. Perhaps he was waiting until after then? Until he was properly ‘available’? That would be very like Jack, she mused. And somewhat concerning for his idea of what they would be. She had to admit that she felt like she could add Jack to the semi-permanent roster of lovers she maintained. Assuming he actually did deliver on the promise contained in his eyes, and his smile, and his cheekbones.

_He_ was still going, thrusting away above her and grunting occasionally. Why was it that the ones you wanted to come quickly never did, and the ones who were gorgeous, and sexy and caring, and for whom you were about to just _let go_ always came that soupçon too soon for _your_ release to be complete? There was Lin, of course, he’d been an expert in assuring her pleasure. And Peter, the Latvian anarchist had been surprisingly deft. Overall, she mused, her hit rate was not bad. But the terrible ones were just _terrible_.

Really, she could have got more satisfaction from her percussor than from the medium’s manager threatening to break into a sweat above her. At least he’d made an attempt at foreplay. Mercifully he hadn’t made too much of an attempt – the point where he’d twisted her nipple as if he was trying to tune in the wireless had made her gasp – in all the _wrong_ ways. Jack wouldn’t be like that, she thought.

No, Jack would interpret her sighs and moans, and, other indications, correctly. He’d realise if it was an evening where her breasts were too tender to receive much more attention than a light kiss as he mapped her body. He’d bury his head between her thighs willingly, and with a look of pleased anticipation on his face, rather than a grimace of disgust or half-hearted obligation. And he’d know what he was doing when he got down there. He’d be gentle with his fingers; right up until the point where she needed him not to be.

Jack would stroke her skin lovingly, sweeping his fingers across her hips and her waist; knowing to skim over her sides, which were always too ticklish to be erogenous. He’d kiss her on the lips, and along her jaw, and lightly nibble the shells of her ears, and her earlobes, being careful around her earrings; if she was still wearing them. Perhaps he’d even tenderly remove them, kissing her ears as he did? And then he’d kiss her shoulders, and maybe, if it was an occasion where she was in the mood, maybe he’d bite into her shoulder, piercing her skin strongly enough to bruise for a few days and then he’d _oooohhhhhhhh_.

There was a small flood between her thighs. She felt it, and it was unmistakable. And not the work of Warwick.

At least she’d extracted a possible motive from him. She’d enjoy passing that on to Jack. _Jack_. Oh this was frustrating. Had she really just fallen apart merely at the _thought_ of Jack Robinson making love to her? It was very annoying. He clearly had no intention to pursue her: he’d said as much to Madame Bolkonsky. Well stuff him! She’d just damned well go ahead and sleep with whomever she chose. It was none of his business after all. And if she _happened_ to let slip how she knew of Warwick’s motive, well then, that would just be Jack’s issue to deal with.

For the love of everything, was this man not finished yet? Her thighs were becoming fatigued. Trailing a hand down his body, she swept around his thigh. She could just about reach his balls. Excellent! Maybe she could stroke his perineum too? That usually worked to bring matters to a conclusion. She’d even been known to insert a finger delicately into an anus before now. She suspected that such an advance would not be met well here.

A quick sweep over smooth skin and then a gentle massage was, indeed, all that was required. Unsurprisingly, he collapsed onto her; a final indignity.

After a few minutes he came back to himself and smiled, _almost_ apologetically. Mercifully he removed his weight, allowing her to remove her feet from his shoulders and place them on the covers. She was even more grateful when he took the hint that he should leave ‘for the sake of propriety’, and ‘the sensitivity of the other house guests’. She was absurdly grateful that he’d agreed to use a French Letter. She was confident in her diaphragm, but she knew its limitations. More family planning never hurt. 

As she lay in bed, alone, afterwards, her mind turned again to Jack. Sandwiches my backside! There was a man of passion underneath the ridiculous number of layers. And she was damned well determined to find him!

Reaching into her bedside drawer she found her percussor. Now, where had she been? Oh yes, Jack piercing her skin just strong enough to bruise…


End file.
